


One for the Rules

by alkhale



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Actor AU, Actor!Shinsuke, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Kita's smooth, Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24211918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alkhale/pseuds/alkhale
Summary: “(Y/n)-san,” Kita whispers, low, just for you. Your eyes flicker nervously up to meet his, heart beating so wildly in your chest you feel like you’ll explode. Any minute now. There’ll be nothing left for him but little bits of nonsense. “I know I have no right to stop you… but please, if you’d be willing to wait, just a bit…”Kita pulls both your hands together now, away from both your shared marks. He holds them in both of his and he gazes at you the entire time, a man truly from another era, from a lost era of things so hopeless romantic and earnest you feel like there’s nothing you can do in the very face of it. Kita brings your hands up and he presses a kiss to your knuckles, peering up at you, eyes like honey, voice soft and warm and everywhere around you.“Would you give me the chance to show you my worth?” Kita asks.Ah, that’s it. Your heart really can’t take anymore.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Reader
Comments: 65
Kudos: 884
Collections: Already Read





	One for the Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shirohi](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Shirohi).



> My heart ended up feeling full writing this, hope it's a good read. It ended up being impossible to write Kita anymore charming than this because I felt like I'd be the one who ended up exploding. 
> 
> FOR SHIROHI'S KO-FI REQUEST, FAR, FAR TOO LONG OVERDUE, THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT AND ALL THAT YOU DO AND FOR ALL YOUR PATIENCE, I HOPE THIS WAS WORTH THE WAIT AHHHHHHHH <3333

There’s a certain manner to things that should always be kept throughout life.

Steps, in a sense. A certain sort of  _ order  _ to things that should be adhered to. You’re pretty certain of this, for the most part, since things don’t really work out otherwise if you go about it any other way.

You like keeping to this order. It makes life easier. Simpler. If you stick to this code, things work out well enough on their own. The same way you like sticking to your usual habits, your usual beliefs, and the things you like.

For example—trying to make the best of life, liking your eggs just right, always putting on your left sock first before your right, and leaving the hotel room before your partner wakes up.

You stealthily grab your heels from off the floor, giving the hotel room one final, quick sweep to make sure you had all your things. Your hair is pulled over your shoulder, crumpled clothes shrugged on over your body. Light is just barely beginning to pour in from the half-drawn curtains in the bedroom, painting streaks of gold bars against the floor you deftly avoid, standing just shy of the edge.

The smell of liquor and cigarette smoke still hang in the air. You give it a disdainful sniff, rubbing a crick out of the back of your neck as you make your way to the dresser and snatch the pretty leather wallet waiting for you. You thumb it open, taking your rightful amount plus a bit of a generous tip and cab fair and toss it back where it belongs.  _ He can afford it.  _ You’ve got a shift in two hours so the train won’t cut it.

You don’t even spare the man sprawled out in the bed behind you a second glance, stepping on his designer pants without any mercy. He’d been going on and on last night about how he wanted to see your face the next morning, take you out to a nice brunch in the cafe down below, chat and get to know each other a bit more…  _ blah blah blah. _

There’s a bright mark that sticks out like a sore thumb against his bare ankle. On it is a splotch of color you have absolutely no correlation or relation to whatsoever—so you know. You know  _ very  _ well that those words will amount to nothing in the grand scheme of things.

In the grand scheme  _ this  _ particular world seems to do things.

_ Not that I care.  _ You huff, satisfied as you go through the bills you’d rightfully earned and smile, pulling your hair free and letting it sweep over your neck as you leave the room. A few eyes turn toward you, glancing back to the expensive room and then to your rumpled clothes and you ignore them all as you strut down the hall, head held high and a proud smile on your lips.

There’s a certain order to things you like to adhere to: you never stay past daylight, no strings attached, you don’t give a shit about them because they don’t give a shit about you, keep track of your clothes, leave nothing behind, and you  _ always  _ make sure to get paid.

The elevator to the hotel lobby  _ dings  _ open. You slide right in, ignoring the shy glance of the woman beside you on your neck. You casually let your hair slide back into place, falling over in a sweep to block her view of it.

And, of course, most importantly—you give no shits about those god damn marks, including the one in bright, bold, beautiful swatches against your neck, right there for the entire damn world to see.

You won’t  _ ever  _ let it tell you what to do.

* * *

You got your mark when you were twelve, which was fairly normal for most people.

Soulmarks. Splotches of color, images, or words that would appear along your body in whatever place they damn well pleased. They were proof that someone in this wide, wide world was meant for you—just you, and you alone. Someone out there was meant to be the half to yours that would make a whole.

You belong to someone and they belong to you.

_ “That’s just the way things are.” _

You didn’t mind it at first. You prodded the gold and silver colors on your skin with narrowed, curious eyes. It was a strange mark, not like any you’d seen on anyone else, so it made you think a bit. (Even if marks were all supposed to be different anyway.)

The world sure does put a lot of stock into though, you realize, staring at billboards and listening to ads rattle on about how there are dozens of sites that try to match you up with your partner—it’s romantic. How could it not be? You’ve got a soulmate, someone waiting for you, no matter where they are…

Until the reality hits and you understand these marks are not quite all they’re chalked up to be.

Because your mother’s mark doesn’t match with your father’s, but they still seem hopelessly in love. It makes you wonder a bit and they explain to you, as kind and openly as they can, that you’re not bound by the mark on your skin, by the words of someone you might never even meet. It’s up to you. It’s always up to you. And you  _ like  _ that. A lot. You like when you get to make your own decisions.

But then one day your mother’s work hires a secretary whose mark matches hers in perfect, utterly  _ perfect _ detail and  _ they  _ fall hopelessly in love and your father is left with a broken heart and empty promises and you.

It’s the first time these soulmarks wrong you.

The second is in middle school when the classmate you like accepts your feelings. The two of you are happy, honestly, it’s great. It’s young, fun, and full of good memories and fights and awkward hands holding onto each other as you snicker and run off behind the gym building. You take love with a grain of salt after witnessing the devastation it brought on your household, but this isn’t too bad. You like it. You could grow to really, really like it.

But then a student transfers and they bump shoulders and you watch with perfect clarity the moment the person you like falls in  _ love  _ with someone else. They barely touch, don’t even talk, but then their heads are turning and you don’t exist and you realize the  _ extent  _ the power of these marks have over people.

It’s frightening.

You break up within the week. It’s brought up with quiet apologies and hurried excuses but you wave them off and smile, wishing them the best. People in class offer you their condolences and pity—but you don’t care much for it. You’re thinking now. A lot more.  _ Soulmarks, huh? _

_ Soulmates. _

Some classmates also tell you to be smarter about it— _ it’s wrong _ , they say.  _ That person isn’t yours. You’re not supposed to like them. _

You start to feel like the blinds have been lifted off your eyes. You watch, noticing with more care how the people around you react and go about their days, centering their entire lives around these marks. You listen dully to the way your classmates prattle on about how badly they wish to meet their soulmates, how amazing the moment must be. You see how  _ nasty  _ it turns some people, green with envy and oozing with resentment as they scratch spots of their skin, grind their teeth and watch as their marks don’t match up with the ones they want—

You realize something about these precious marks in high school, when a boy confesses his heart and soul to you and proclaims on and on how he doesn’t care that your marks don’t match, how he wants to be with you and he’s liked you for so long and you simply say,  _ “Okay.” _

The two of you go out for what feels like an eternity, wrapped up in pleasant moments and little fights and normal, normal, normal things until something starts to dawn on you, but before it can come to true fruition he comes to your door crying that he’d met his soulmate and his heart is torn in two because he wants to get to know him but he loves you and he’s just—

_ Oh.  _ You realize.  _ Soulmarks, they’re a bit like rules. _

Some kind of unspoken, unbreakable rule that exists in your world to adhere everyone to a certain guideline. You will only love this person. You must only love this person. You cannot  _ not  _ love this person. Inevitable, unchangeable, written in stone and—

You think about your father, quietly holding onto the frame of your mother, sitting in the corner of the kitchen when he thinks you aren’t looking with tears falling down the sides of his face.

You start to feel a little rebellious.

You have to fall in love with your soulmate? You  _ have  _ to love them and no one else? You  _ have  _ to become like all those mindless idiots and sick fools who lie and proclaim their love transcends their marks but they all go crawling back to their soulmates when they finally show their faces?

Hah.

_ Hah. _

Says  _ who _ ?

You start to date. People. Lots of them. You’re still picky, of course, and you don’t just date  _ anyone _ , but if someone seems earnest or desperate enough you give them a chance. You try, sometimes, very, very hard to fall in love with them. It doesn’t work but you don’t really sweat the small stuff—who really knows what love’s supposed to feel like anyway? You date these people whose marks don’t match yours, you let yourself be with them, wrapping their arms around you and yours around them and you sneer at their marks and your own and laugh at the invisible rule because— _ what a farce. _

This continues, all the way into your college years when you land a job at a cafe located on a famous film lot. It’s always big and bustling with plenty of hot shots, actors and actresses worth more than you could even imagine.

It ends up being where you thrive, however. These rich actors, rolling in more money than they know what to do with—they’re the prime examples of this world you’re seeing with startling clarity. Some of them are married—you never humor these ones, cheaters are scum, after all, but they still go sniffing and searching for someone to hold them even when they have a matching mark at home.  _ See? It’s not full-proof. _

The others, marked but not married, not yet found, they like to test the system as much as you do. They roam and move and are eager to prove they aren’t bound by the splotches on their skin, and while some fail, they usually still come crawling back. These handsome, beautiful, powerful and famous people don’t mind spending a few extra bills on the barista who doesn’t mind being with someone who doesn’t match her mark, and it works out perfectly for you because you need money anyways.

You do more research—what are the statistics of meeting your soulmate? How high are the chances?  _ Not high at all.  _ You start to feel a bit relieved, scratching at the bright, bright,  _ bright  _ mark painted over your neck for the world to see. You look into people who can try to get them removed or tattooed over and decide you’re going to save up. These side endeavors don’t just pay the bills—they’re building blocks to a foundation for your determined future.

One without a soulmark  _ or  _ a soulmate.

Everyone’s just pretending to play by these rules, they’re all the same.

* * *

“You’re five minutes later today, was everything alright?”

Well, maybe there is  _ one  _ exception.

You grin brightly, hurrying to tie your apron over your waist as you skitter around the line of customers and sneak behind the counter before your boss notices. Your favorite customer is already there waiting for you, right as rain, just as he always is with his impeccable timing, a small, gentle smile stretched over his lips.

Plenty of beautiful people come in and out of the coffee shop—it’s centered right in the middle of a movie lot after all. But if you had to be a bit biased, then he really,  _ really  _ stood a cut above the rest.

Light gray hair like silver with darkened tips, betraying the youthful, slender cut of his jawline and dark honey brown eyes that seemed capable of peering straight through any projector or screen. He has a fairly tall frame, just above average, to be honest, but he holds himself with enoug poise and grace to give himself feet over anyone else. Always dressed impeccably well, clean cut and put together. He wasn’t ridiculously ripped or straining with muscles, not peering and grinning seductively or sauvely into the cameras with a teasing smirk, not overtly anything else but just quietly, kindly…

Beautiful.

The award winning actor and upcoming agricultural documentary director—Kita Shinsuke. Or, as the rest of the world knew him instead, the famous actor Shiki.

Apparently he’d broken into the entertainment industry after being scouted early his high school years when casters noticed his poise and grace on screen conducting interviews for his national-level volleyball team.

Kita had started with gentle, quiet roles that somehow managed to take the audience by storm and began to branch out his craft—the man could turn himself into the handsome and quiet, murderous villain or switch to a hardened sergeant in the midst of a battlefield and  _ just  _ as easily flip on the coin to a soft-spoken business man searching for something  _ more  _ in life.

You…  _ might  _ be a bit of a fan.

You’re not ridiculously crazy for cinema. Your lack of knowledge of most actors and actresses was part of the reason why you were hired in such a high-traffic store since you wouldn’t be starstruck each time someone asked for an extra espresso shot. You like movies when you like them, watch them here and there. But you’ve always had a bit of a personal favorite for Kita’s works because you drew his name by luck in an elective film class to study his performances and acting.

You’d originally gone about the whole assignment only half-interested, slipping in one of his disks and sitting back, arms crossed and waiting. The first film you ever saw with him was his war movie where he only played a supporting role but still somehow…  _ somehow  _ he just...

_ “...I won’t leave you,”  _ Kita’d say, playing the role of the battle hardened soldier with one of his favorite co-stars, Tsumu, also known as Atsumu Miya.  _ “I brought you out here. I’ll be bringing you back.” _

_ “With that bad arm, chief? You’ll have to drag me by my hair.” _

_ “If that’s what it takes. You’re going home. Your brother’s waiting for you.” _

Kita’s character in that one had managed to haul Atsumu’s mangled body out of the trench and drag him miles and miles from the war-zone, bleeding and weak, talking to him the entire time to keep Atsumu awake—  _ “I used to work on a farm. It was my grandmother’s and then my mother’s. You know there’s a certain way rice needs to be planted? It starts like this…”  _

Kita’s words had filled the soft music and silence of the screen. You remember sitting there on your couch, watching, tears rolling down your cheeks before you even realized you were crying as Kita’s character kept talking, talking, and  _ talking _ , strained, tired, but he kept going until he and Atsumu managed to make it to the baseline of the encampment where he finally collapsed, eyes sliding shut and never to open again as Atsumu’s brother (in real-life too, amazingly) came hobbling out on crutches for his brother and sergeant. 

Kita’s character had collapsed in a wheat field, looking peaceful as everyone raced to help him and then the screen shifted back to Atsumu—the movie was about the rookie soldier, after all, Kita was a supporting role.

You remember sobbing. Stupidly and hopelessly, for that poor sergeant. 

There was something about Kita’s acting that hooked you. You didn’t know how to explain it. You felt the subtle nuances of his easily blank expression told more than the most expressive people ever could. The quiet reach of his fingertips for his co-star, the silent way he’d drag his hands down his face when plotting their demise or the low, beating struggle across his face as he hauled them out of the ditch, bleeding and weak. He just…  _ shone  _ on screen. 

You’d never seen someone seem so human. You’d never seen someone so…  _ real _ .

(In a world where marks feel fake and fate feels like a farce and—)

So of course you’d been a  _ little  _ bit surprised one month into working at the shop when Kita suddenly appeared at the entrance, looking mildly troubled as he made his way past awing fans and workers and quietly came to your register, seeking assistance on finding a good drink to replace the one he used to order since it was taken off the menu.

You might’ve dropped the pot of coffee you were pouring over. You might’ve dropped your jaw too, but those things are neither here nor there now. You just remember spluttering to Kita the first drink that came to mind when you thought of him, a roasted rice tea because of a movie he was in you liked, and you remember the way he looked up and at you like you might’ve been the only person in the world.

_ “Okay,”  _ Kita had said, smiling softly at you.  _ “I’ll try that please.” _

(Even if it wasn’t real, it was still nice.)

You’re very careful not to let your fangirl show when it comes to Kita—he’s a busy, respectful man you very much admire and you’re happy to keep it like this, as a barista and her regular.

_ He really brings a different meaning to acting.  _ You think, heart squeezing in fondness.  _ I hope he takes the academy by storm again this year! _

“Just fine,” you say to Kita, quickly pulling your hair up into a ponytail and washing your hands.

He wordlessly places the exact amount down for his usual drink and once more drops a horribly handsome and generous tip into the tip jar, moving over to stand by the waiting counter as you shoot to work on his usual order. Your coworkers roll their eyes in amusement but they don’t say anything, moving out of the way as you get to work. “Just a bit of traffic today. Stayed up late last night!”

“You seem to be doing that an awful lot lately,” Kita says quietly. His long, dark coat is folded neatly over the soft wool of his cream sweater turtleneck, showing off the fit, lithe figure of his frame.  _ Ah, he looks great in this outfit too.  _ “Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine,” you say breezily, pouring the roasted rice tea through the strainer and carefully switching the heat to a lower temperature so it can sit a bit longer. “I’ve just been picking up on my second job lately.”

Kita glances to his watch and pulls out the chair by the waiting counter, taking a seat. Normally you and your baristas get a bit ruffled when your customers watch you like hawks while you’re preparing drinks, but with Kita, it’s become just a bit of second nature now. And the man never really  _ stares _ , he just watches, the same way someone would observe a butterfly floating past or watch a bird coast overhead, gentle and unassuming.

His gaze is always warm.  _ Kind.  _ Even if you know it’s not really meant for you and just the way he is, it’s still nice. It even feels like it’s for you sometimes, in your funny little fantasies.

“Your night shift,” Kita says, remembering your conversations from before. You nod, smiling wryly as you pour his drink out and wait for it to cool, one minute exactly. “...what exactly is it that you do, if you don’t mind me asking, (L/n)-san?”

“A bit of freelance work,” you say simply. “Working with clients on this and that.”

“I see,” Kita says calmly. “...please take care of yourself, (L/n)-san. It isn’t good to show up to work late. If you're looking for more work, you could always become my manager. I'm due for a new one.”

“N-No, I don't think I could handle that," you flush, rubbing the back of your neck with a laugh. "I-I'll stick with this for now."

"That's a shame," Kita says quaintly. "You'd do a lovely job. You won't show up late to work anymore either."

"Gonna scold me for my boss?” you tease, finishing his drink off. Kita smiles, polite as he rests his chin against his hand. 

“If it means you get more sleep,” Kita says, swiping one thumb under the sharp curve of his eye in motion to yours. “Perhaps I should.”

You laugh, setting the drink down with a bright grin before him. “I always make it in time for you at least, right?”

Kita’s eyes lower from your face down to your hands, watching the way your fingers cup the warm curve of his drink. He quietly raises his hands, quiet as your hands instinctively move when his settle where yours had been. Kita turns back to your face, smiling, warm and gentle. “That’s true. I suppose I can forgive you for that.”

There’s something funny to Kita Shinsuke though, a small quirk to him that… Well, it’d be rather presumptuous to say it was like _you_ in any way because Kita Shinsuke is not like you nor will he ever be, god forbid, he’s a great man, but it’s not _unlike_ you.

Kita Shinsuke is a man of habit.

If there’s a set of things you like to adhere to, then there’s an entire way of life that Kita seems to keep in ordinance with how he lives. Your coworkers used to share rumours with you that despite his gentle demeanor, he could be a frightening person to work with backstage and that he was always strict about the manner things were done during filming. If they filmed on places where work was distrubed, the people had to be reimbursed, everyone needed to be timely and take care of their health, if someone worked late they all should work late.

_ But those aren’t really bad things.  _ You thought back then, organizing cups in silence.  _ If anything, they’re kind. _

Kita’s an absolute stickler for routine. You’re pretty sure he always wakes up at the same time of day unless god interrupts him himself. He’s always punctual, always courteous, and ever since that day nearly half a year ago he showed up at your shop, a little lost, a little sad even (you just guessed he really liked that drink) he’d rarely ever failed since to show up on time.

Kita always shows up at the beginning of your shift, orders the same drink you recommended to him the first time you met, has it prepared the exact same way and never gets anything else. He then sits in the waiting spot, polite and cordial, always making conversation with you. He drinks his drink for a while, chatting with you for another hour or two until it’s time for him to go.

Repeat.

You’d tried offering him different drinks before, and sometimes he’s willing, waiting patiently while you make it and trying it, smiling and complimenting your drink—but the darn guy just orders the same thing anyway the next day.

He just  _ really  _ likes it you guess.

There  _ are  _ some days where Kita doesn’t show. The funny and rather charming thing about those days though is that he always goes out of his way to inform you ahead of time when he won’t be around, whether prior arrangements or because he’s filming out of the area or in another country. Kita likes to let you know since you normally always have his drink ready for him before he gets here unless you run late yourself—  _ “Hold the drink for me,”  _ he says quietly.  _ “I’ll be back.”  _

You think it’s hopelessly sweet of the actor to even care and give a barista exact dates on when he’ll return, taking with him a pack of the tea you brew to hold him off while he’s away. Your manager throws his hands in the air about the whole thing, since Kita’s also fairly adamant, though alway polite, that you’re the only one he’d prefer to have the drink made by.

Just an ‘actor quirk’ your boss says, ‘everyone has one.’

It’s a nice quirk, you think. And it never fails to brighten up your days working here. Your chats with Kita are a highlight and something you look forward to too. Sometimes you’re brave enough to slip in your thoughts on his works, and he always turns his full focus on you then, listening with almost embarrassing intensity and smiling in that tender way of his as you rattle on and on about how he was in this or that.

_ “But which one is your favorite?”  _ Kita asked before.  _ “If you had to pick?” _

_ “Gun to my head,”  _ you said, looking stressed.  _ “Don’t laugh. But your leading role in  _ Ink Fields. _ ”  _ You remember pressing your face to your hands, sheepishly admitting,  _ “I lost my shit during that one.” _

Kita looked at you with a puzzled tilt of his head, those sometimes eerily perceptive eyes open in curiosity. You’d had to explain to him that the touching tale of a businessman leaving his high-end office when he receives word of a death in the family to visit the place he once spent so many summers with—a farm, and tries to make amends with his strained past with his family, particularly his grandmother, and finds something in the midst of the tragedy—it broke and filled your heart, all at once.

_ “I love that one,”  _ you admitted.  _ “I know it only won an award for music but it was _ — _ ” _

_ “That one,”  _ Kita said softly, smiling at you.  _ “Is my favorite too.” _

Your coworkers tease sometimes that you ought to ask him out or try your luck on the elusive, mysterious actor, but you always decline. You’re fond of Kita, you love his work—but it’s nothing like that. You’ve never once even imagined yourself with him. A nice, gentle person like Kita… he’s not someone within your scope of reach.

_ And even someone like Kita,  _ you think, absently touching your fingers to the bold mark printed for the whole world to see on the side of your neck.  _ Has one of these somewhere. _

You’ve never seen Kita’s mark before—he’s one of the handful that have it somewhere nice and private, even when he wears button-down short sleeves for the summer or on screen when his clothes are ripped. You’re almost sure it’s a beautiful mark though, or at least it  _ better  _ be.

Because Kita Shinsuke is an exception in your classification of this world and all its forces and rules—Kita Shinsuke’s the kind of man you hope sincerely from the bottom of your heart, will find someone he deserves. Someone who’ll love him, fated and inevitable.

“How’s it today, Kita-san?” you ask, wiping your hands down.

Kita takes another long sip of his tea, closing his eyes for a moment before he looks back at you, making you feel again like you’re the only one in this moment who exists. He smiles, eyes warm.

“Perfect as always, (L/n)-san.”

You grin.

This is another habit of life you’d like to keep too.

* * *

“I’m telling you, this one is new and I think you’ll like it too,” you say to Kita, pointing aggressively to the new drink on the counter. He looks a bit amused, you think, despite his settled expression. “It’s got that tea flavor and it’s not too sweet!”

“I’m fine with the one you always make,” Kita says simply. “Do you like this new one?”

“Well, I guess I haven’t tried it…”

“If you like it then I’ll try it.”

“Kita-san, you can’t put all this responsibility on my poor tongue—”

“Oh, my, your mark is so lovely!”

You freeze for a second, nearly dropping the bills in your hands. Kita pauses directly in front of you, eyes lowered to where both your hands meet before he calmly raises his gaze, taking your expression in with care. He’s handsome again today, a long coat settled over his shoulders so the sleeves hang, a dark maroon button up folded neatly at his bare wrists. 

The woman behind Kita is beaming, peeking her head from around him to gesture excitedly to the side of your neck. “It’s so big and bright!”

It is. Obnoxiously so. Bright gold and silver in melted swatches on the side of your skin. It stands out like a glaring neon sign for the whole world to see and as a reminder to you that there are rules that exist.

_ Rules you like to break. _

“Yeah,” you say simply, taking Kita’s money and putting it away. He stands there at the counter still though, quietly gazing at the side of your neck. You restrain from wanting to cover it up.

“Your soulmate must want you to know they love you very much then,” she says, beaming. “Be proud of it! Have you met them yet?”

_ They love you very much, huh? _

“No,” you say, flat. “I haven’t.”

(You don’t see the way Kita’s eyes lower, back to your hands. Nor the way his fingers carefully seem to curl in on themselves for a second—)

“My, what a shame!” the old lady says. “Try a little harder! I’m sure they’re looking for you as well and—”

“Ma’am,” Kita says suddenly to your surprise, turning his head over his shoulder and smiling, polite, “you worked on the editing for that one film, didn’t you? I’m sorry for putting you on the spot…”

“Oh, no, no, not at all!” the old woman beams, utterly pleased. “Shiki-san, what a pleasure!”

Kita shoots you a discreet look over his shoulder, eyes crinkling a bit in warm amusement. You instantly catch his drift and flush, looking at the counter as he turns back to the old lady. “How are you these days…”

Kita motions for the two of them to step out of line and to the side. The old lady eagerly follows him, completely forgetting about you. You take two seconds at the counter, collecting yourself and your tense frame before you force yourself to relax and shake your head, hurrying to make Kita’s drink and make it extra well—he saved you on that one.

You pause for a second, looking up when you feel eyes on the side of your head. Your gaze sweeps over the shop but there’s no one looking your way, not even Kita who seems perfectly engaged with the old lady, chatting her to the side, away from his usual waiting spot.

You touch your mark, nails digging into the side and you frown, determination rippling through you.

* * *

_ Come to room 132. 8 o’clock. _

You grimace at the paper, tucked neatly into a gilded little envelope that lacks any privacy whatsoever.  _ Way to be discreet.  _ It’d been slipped to you over the counter at some point in the day today amidst all the other transactions. The worth of the material and the address of the hotel tell you enough—it’s someone who works around here with a higher pay grade than yours and knows exactly what kind of services you’re willing to provide.

You’re more inclined to toss it, to be honest. You don’t like secret rendezvous like this without properly knowing who’s inviting you, especially for safety reasons. You  _ have  _ done this once or twice before though, since actors tend to like their privacy and secrets, and you know if it’s the grand hotel next door then there can't really be any mistake.

_ And what they’re offering is good.  _ You thumb the spot where they’d written digits, promising compensation for your services.  _ I need this. _

Your mood sours but you ignore it, shaking your head.  _ This is what you’ve got to do for what you want. _

“(L/n)-san?”

You jump, looking up. Familiar dark honey eyes meet you in an instant, brows creased in concern. You quickly crumple the paper in your hands, shoving it to the underside of the counter. “K-Kita-san! Hello! I wasn’t expecting you at this hour.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Kita says slowly. The corner of his lip is turned up into a nice smile, but his expression is one of visible concern, brows creased as he looks you up and down. “We finished filming a little earlier today and I wanted to stop by but…”

“Hold on, I’ll make your usual right now,” you say eagerly, perking up and turning from the counter. Kita usually always lets you know ahead if he’s coming by again so you’ll have his drink ready. “This is a nice change of pace—”

“(L/n)-san, are you alright?”

You blink, turning over your shoulder to look at Kita in wide eyed surprise. His brows are furrowed, a light pinch between his eyes. His hands hang at his sides, outside the sleeves of the long maroon coat he wears over a black dress shirt. His hair is swept over the top of his head this time, making his gray hair look silver under the warm light of the cafe.  _ You look great, just as always. _

“...alright?” you say dumbly. “Yeah, I’m okay. Is something wrong?”

“You look… tired,” Kita says carefully. He stares at the spot just below your eyes. “You… have you been staying up late again?”

You laugh, rubbing the side of your neck, fingers trailing over your mark. Kita’s eyes follow the action, staring at your mark for a heartbeat longer than he should before he looks back to your eyes. “Just a bit. I’ve been in, uh, high demand lately.”

“You’re overworking yourself,” Kita says, like it's a fact. You grimace, looking sideways. He frowns. “You need to rest and take care of your health, (L/n)-san. Taking care of your body is important.”

“I know, I know,” you try to placate, already preparing his drink. Kita moves from the door of the cafe, soundless like a spectre, hardly even real with how ethereal his hair looks and his eyes flicker. He comes to hover by the counter, hand hesitating to pull out the seat before he seems to settle for standing.  _ Oh, a bit different today.  _ “I’m fine! Honestly. I get plenty of rest.”

_ Just been a bit busy.  _ You inwardly grimace and set the tea to boil, watching the soothing color come out. You sneak a glance up and quickly look away, surprised at how unconvinced and unsettled Kita looks.

“Eight hours?” Kita asks. “Every night?”

“Well, sure, not  _ every  _ night,” you admit. “But some nights I get way more than eight and some I get less, so it works out!”

“(L/n)-san,” Kita says, a bit soft, “that’s not exactly how it works. It’s also not safe to be working so late at night. Where are you usually located?”

“Never anywhere too far or somewhere that isn’t safe,” you say quickly. You close your mouth in surprise, looking down at your hands.  _ Huh? Well, yeah, I don’t have to explain everything to him, but I guess I just… no, no, it’s because Kita’s such a nice person. He’s always open with me, so he deserves this too.  _ “I’m always careful too, don’t worry!”

“What kind of work has you out so late at night?” Kita continues, brows creased in worry as he stands across from you. His hands are hidden behind the counter.

“Just some odd jobs,” you say soothingly. “Kita-san, don’t worry so much about me! You’re the one who works too hard—remember how beat you looked the first night we met? You’re the one who needs rest.”

You gently hand him the drink, moving it across the counter and cupping your hands over the mug. You secretly hope he doesn’t mind that it’s not a to-go cup like usual, feeling a little greedy for some chatter with him, even if just a bit.  _ Kita always makes a bad day just feel a bit better.  _

“How was filming today, Kita-san? It’s for that new documentary on—”

His hands are warmer than you expect.

You can’t stop staring, dumbfounded at the sight that’s clear in front of your eyes.

You can’t quite figure it out, how nice his long fingers look and the way they warmly curl over yours, gentle, just barely ghosting over the top of your skin but still so  _ warm.  _ Kita’s hands are cupped over both of yours, holding them over the mug as he stands on the other side of the counter, gazing at your joined hands in silence, face unreadable.

Something surges from the tip of yours toes and up, up, up—crashing up your throat. It waits there, flooding inside of your chest, a rapid flush of energy and something  _ warm  _ and—

_ What is this? _

“(L/n)-san,” Kita says. His voice feels closer, lower,  _ softer.  _ You’re almost afraid to look up. “This will be forward of me, but is the reason you’re working so much at this second job because of financial reasons?”

You quickly whip your head up to Kita’s gaze, startled by how soft his expression seems. It’s a subtle thing, a little crease of his brow, a slope in the way his eyes look at you—the quietly expressive look he wears so well on a screen.

“I-I, well,” you quickly pull your hands away, shoving them into the pockets of your apron. Kita’s hands hover in the air over the mug, eyes lowering to where they wait, empty of yours and Kita quietly looks back up at you. “I—sort of! But it’s nothing serious, Kita-san. Nothing like that at all, it’s… it’s a personal thing I’m saving for, it’s just something I want—I’m not struggling with rent or anything like that so please, don’t even worry!”

_ That’s too sweet of you to worry.  _ Your heart pounds in your chest, startled.  _ That’s too nice. You’re too kind, Kita-san. You don’t need to worry about someone like me. Save all of that for the person who shares the pretty mark on your skin. You deserve someone much better. Don’t _ —

“Something you want?” Kita says, looking visibly relieved. His hands settle down onto the countertop and he offers you a small, small smile. “You’re working this hard for something like that? What is it?”

“Huh?”

“What is it?” Kita asks calmly. “(L/n)-san, you’ve always helped me out and be kind to me during all this time. It’s almost more than half a year now… I would like to do something kind for you in return—”

“Oh, no!” you shout. Kita looks a bit surprised at your outburst. “I mean, no! No, um, you don’t need to worry about anything like that! Kita-san, please, it’s nothing at all—”

“You always put up with my selfish requests,” Kita insists. “I’d like to do the same for you.”

_ This isn’t… something most people ask for.  _ Your hand creeps up to the side of your neck, cupping the spot where your mark is. You laugh, nervous as your eyes dart to the floor and Kita tilts his head to the side, eyes on your neck too.

“Anything,” Kita says. “...I want to do something for you.”

“This isn’t really something you ask other people to do for you,” you laugh wryly. “So please, don’t worry. It’s just something I want to get done for myself.”

_ Is it okay to tell him? He might judge you. He’s always been open with you.  _ Kita shares whatever you ask of him with you. You know about his grandmother who he adores, about his high school days, you know more about him than you ever expected to know of the man you respect and admire… it’s… this is…

_ Okay, right? _

“I think you might’ve noticed,” you say, sheepish. “You always bail me out when people start conversations about it… I’m not really fond of the idea of soulmarks and…. Soulmates.”

Kita falls silent, watching you patiently. His expression is open and without judgement, and it gives you a bit of confidence to share something with someone you’ve never done before.

“I haven’t been for a long time,” you laugh weakly. “So I’ve been doing a bit of research and found some credible places who can do this sort of thing. It’s supposed to be painless and a lot like getting a tattoo removed, but it does tend to run for a higher price—”

Kita freezes. His eyes snap to the side of your neck and then to your face. Realization dawns on him.

“I’m saving up to get it removed,” you say, fingernails digging into the damn mark shining on the side of your neck.

You’re finally going to do it.

_ Break the ultimate rule. _

“A good amount of people actually get it done,” you say, holding your neck. You ignore the uncomfortable feeling twisting in your gut, fighting it. “It’s pretty surprising. It’s super simple and it won’t even—”

You stop. The words die on your lips, eyes wide.

Kita’s face is pale.  _ Deathly.  _ He looks as though you’ve knocked all the wind out of him, taken a knife and twisted it right through his gut. His hands are clenched over the top of the countertop. Kita’s shown numerous expressions across the screen, over interviews and magazines, but the face he shows to you right now, nearly terrified and hurt is—

He looks at where your mark is, right against the side of your neck.

“You want to have it removed?” Kita whispers, sounding pained.

You feel your stomach sink.

_ I shouldn’t have said that.  _ You realize your mistake too late. You were being careless. It didn’t matter how  _ you  _ felt, soulmarks were different for everyone. You knew nothing about Kita’s opinion on them, he never brought it up to you.  _ What if he doesn’t have one? What if he hates it? What if, what if _ —

If Kita didn’t have a mark and you’d gone out of your way to talk about how you wanted your own removed—

“I-I’m so sorry!” you blurt, eyes wide in panic. Kita looks startled out of his daze, quickly looking back at you. You’ve never seen the normally poised man look so out of his element. It’s almost terrifying. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that—Kita-san, please just ignore that I—”

Something suddenly seems to clear across Kita’s face. His expression becomes hard to figure out, the same way he’s so skilled at schooling on screen. His hand hovers over the lower half of his face, staring at you for a moment before he quickly moves from the counter. Your heart lurches in fear, hurrying over to the opposite side to meet him where no countertop blocks the two of you. Kita’s staring at the floor, thinking, leaving you in the dark.

“That was careless of me,” you say quickly. “I-I don’t know how you feel about soulmarks, but if I’ve offended you, I’m so sorry—”

“You haven’t done a single thing wrong,” Kita says suddenly, turning quickly to you. His expression is almost fierce, even though his face is even, his eyes burn, all the way through your skin.

You step back in surprise. A flicker of something that seems almost depeserate flashes across his face and your eyes are suddenly bulging out of your head, jaw going slack when Kita falls to his knees in a proper kneeling position in front of you.  _ K-Kita _ — _ the award winning actor Kita Shinsuke is on his knees in front of me and _ —

_ HUH? _

“K-K-K-Kita-san?” you gasp, knees shaking. “Kita-san, what are you—”

Kita lowers his head to the floor, prostrating himself before you. Your mouth opens into an incoherent screech.

“(Y/n)-san,” Kita says, voice quiet,  _ full _ . You choke on your own name. “ _ Please. _ I know I have no place in this matter or a right to say or ask this of you—but please, if you’d consider, for even just a moment, a small one, then I beg of you—don’t have your mark removed.”

_ Don’t? _

You almost feel it burn against the side of your neck.

Your eyes pop out of your sockets. You choke on your words. “ _ K-K-Kita-san _ ! Please! Get up! You don’t need to bow or kneel— _ oh my god _ , get up! Y-You don’t have to do this, I’m sorry I brought it up, I—”

“There’s a certain order things should be done,” Kita says sternly, looking dismayed with himself, head touching the floor. You’re about to have an aneurysm. “I thought… I thought if I proceeded with more care, I thought it would be alright. I wanted to take time with this, with you, since it was only right—I thought I  _ had  _ more time but I was blind to how you felt about this…”

It’s the most you’ve ever heard Kita speak in one fell swoop. His voice is urging, imploring, lacking all of his elegance and all of his collected cool—his eyes peer up at you from behind those dark dipped silver strands, filled with—

Something sharp twists your gut. It launches all the way up to your chest with fervor.

_ Huh? _

_ “I want to take my time with you.” _

Kita carefully raises his head, sliding his hands to his knees. The dark honey eyes meet yours, threatening to peer right into every little spot you might be trying to hide from him. For someone with a face so seemingly gentle, Kita’s expressions can be anything but—

“Please pardon my forwardness,” Kita says suddenly, hands reaching for the collar of his shirt. You choke, soul flying out of your body as his fingers start moving deftly over the top buttons, hurrying past his tie. 

Your brain starts to short circuit. Kita Shinsuke,  _ the  _ Kita Shinsuke is on his knees in front of you, asking you not to remove your soulmark, asking you to forgive him as he takes off his shirt in front of you and—

_ HUH? _

His milky skin comes into view. The firm cut of his shoulder, his collarbone, all of his skin becomes exposed to you in a flurry that feels ridiculously intimate, his eyes never leaving yours and suddenly you feel embarrassed, down to your bones, to your very core as he watches you and his shirt slips off his shoulder and—

You haven’t felt like this before. Not with anyone else. Not with all those people who ask you to stay in their bed, with all those people who you try to find something to prove with and not with anyone else—

Your cheeks flush a dark red. Your hands fly up to your face, spluttering. “K-K-K-Kita—”

“(Y/n)-san,” Kita says. And you’ve never heard anyone say your name like that either. Like it’s never belonged to anyone else but him—

You peek through your fingers, heart in your mouth.

And then your world comes to a screeching, stuttering halt.

Even his chest is flawless. Muscular and smooth—no,  _ almost  _ flawless. Everything is right except for the tiny, tiny little letters imprinted in simple, quiet black, right across where Kita’s heart is.

_ “You’re the exception.” _

—in your handwriting.

Something floods your chest, wild and rampant. You’re not quite sure when you sink to your knees in front of Kita, but you do, knees hitting the floor with a little  _ thud.  _ His hand reaches out, as though to steady you, before he thinks better of it, keeping it by his side while he waits and watches your expression, his own hidden from you.

_ You’re the exception.  _ You can’t stop staring at it. It’s your handwriting, there’s no doubt. It’s small and secretive and printed in such a presumptuous place—his heart? Right over his heart? What were you thinking?

Kita Shinsuke’s soulmark. It’s yours. You.

The only man you’d met you’d even considered the exception to this phony farce. The man who claimed your adoration and respect, the man who treated you with nothing but kindness and charm, who looked at you with nothing but warmth, who wanted no one else but  _ you  _ to make something as simple as the drink he had every morning, who knew things no one else knew—

Who, who, who—

Kita Shinsuke’s  _ your _ —

_ The man who deserved better than someone like you. _

Your hand flies to the side of your neck, clamping over your mark. Kita’s eyes flicker, hesitant as he watches your hand on your neck. Your lips part in disbelief, staring at him with wide eyes, cheeks flushing a dark, furious red that crawls all the way up to your ears and—

The beautiful swatches of gold and silver you tried so hard to hate against the side of your skin, the neat, even strokes that looked like fields of wheat or rice, bold and rising up from your collarbone, taking up so much of your space, showing so much to the world, speaking so  _ loudly  _ for someone who seemed so  _ quiet _ .

The mark you promised you’d hate— _ Kita _ .

_ He doesn’t deserve that.  _ You think, conflicted, all wrapped up in something confusing.  _ He deserves better than someone like me who’s wanted to hate this all along _ — _ who  _ has  _ hated it all this time _ —

“It was when we first met,” Kita says quietly, watching your expression with care. You look back up at him, clutching the side of your neck. “Do you remember? I told you a few months after, my grandmother had been admitted because she collapsed.”

You do. She’s better now, right as rain and bustling about and Kita loves her to death. He wanted the two of you to meet. You thought there was no way. You and Kita were acquaintances at best and he was an actor on the screen and—

“We were all worried it wouldn’t be alright,” Kita says carefully. “When I came into this shop and I saw you, and the rice on your neck—I thought I was imagining things.”  _ Oh, so it  _ is _ rice. Kita-san, you gave me rice? That’s so tacky of you. _

_ “My favorite is that one too.” _

“But then you offered the drink she made the best,” Kita says softly. “The same drink. That was when I knew, (Y/n).”

His eyes melt through everything, through all of you. You suddenly feel defenseless. If it’d been anyone else—any other asshole, any other monster or jerk or scum—you could’ve done it. You could’ve. You  _ would’ve. _

But it isn’t any of those people.

It’s him. It’s Kita.  _ Shinsuke. _

It’s the only person you ever thought,  _ maybe, if it’s someone like that.  _ The only person who had a chance of asking you to turn all your ideals around, if even just for a second, just for him.

Your chest tightens. Your throat closes up. You feel— _ nervous? I’m nervous?  _

Kita’s hand gently drifts up his bare chest, lightly touching your words over his heart. He sweeps his thumb across them with incredible fondness, gazing directly back at you. Your heart stutters pitifully. “I’ve always felt… these words were meant to be private. I never wanted to show them to anyone else but the person they belonged to, so I’d have them cover it up during films or otherwise, just in case.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling at the corner, gentle yet fierce in the way they hold you. “They’re written so softly, so secretly… it felt like you didn’t want anyone else to see them. No one else… but me."

_ Oh, no.  _ You grab your chest with your free hand. _ Oh, no. I don’t think my heart can take anymore of this. This is _ —

“I apologize for mine,” Kita says, his hand reaching out and settling over yours, right over where you cup them over his mark, your mark— _ our mark?  _ His fingers tentatively slip through yours, coaxing them apart until his fingers and intertwined with yours and he lifts your hand off your neck so the mark shows, watching your dazed expression with those quiet, melting eyes and that small, kind smile.

“I didn’t mean for it to be a source of any pain for you,” he says softly. “When we met, I wanted to get to know you better the right way. The proper way, without them. I didn’t mind if courting took long, I liked learning more about you. I love our talks.”

_ He wanted to love me without our marks _ —

Kita reaches with his other hand, guiding your free one to his chest. You balk, entire face a flushed tomato at this point as he lets your finger settle gently over the mark that’s yours, the binds him to you the way the world’s always promised, in a way that you’ve always thought has to be wrong but now feels so right—

_ No, not just because of this.  _ You can feel his heartbeat underneath your fingertips. A staccato of hope, of earnestness.  _ Because it’s you. _

“(Y/n)-san,” Kita whispers, low, just for you. Your eyes flicker nervously up to meet his, heart beating so wildly in your chest you feel like you’ll explode. Any minute now. There’ll be nothing left for him but little bits of nonsense. “I know I have no right to stop you… but please, if you’d be willing to wait, just a bit…”

Kita pulls both your hands together now, away from both your shared marks. He holds them in both of his and he gazes at you the entire time, a man truly from another era, from a lost era of things so hopeless romantic and  _ earnest  _ you feel like there’s nothing you can do in the very face of it. Kita brings your hands up and he presses a kiss to your knuckles, peering up at you, eyes like honey, voice soft and warm and  _ everywhere around you _ .

“Would you give me the chance to show you my worth?” Kita asks.

Ah, that’s it. Your heart really can’t take anymore.

A bit of blood dribbles down your nose.

Kita blinks in surprise and you stutter, eyes dizzy, head churning as your heart thumps pitifully against your chest. He quickly fishes out a handkerchief from his pocket, holding it gently up to your nose while he keeps your other hands intertwined. “(Y/n)-san, are you alright?”

“I—” you start nasally, squeezing your eyes shut because if you look at that beautiful face even a second longer, your heart might really stop after all. “I-I don’t think I’m at all what you deserve, Kita-san—”

“Please,” Kita says warmly. “Shinsuke is alright, if that’s fine with you.”

More blood rushes from your nose. You weakly shake your head. “K-Kita, I’ve… I’ve thought really poorly about soulmates for a really long time… but if it’s someone like  _ you _ , I… it almost feels wrong. Like you deserve much better than someone’s who’s been so resentful when you’ve never done anything wrong—”

“You never owed me anything,” Kita says.

You press the handkerchief harder to your nose. Your eyes are spinning, cheeks flushed bright red as you barely manage to choke out, “...but if you still want to try… if someone like me is okay… if… without these marks… something… slow?”

Kita presses his lips against your knuckles again. You’re hypnotized, trapped in the dark honey that pools around you and the way Kita smiles, like nothing but you could ever make him smile like this over the top of your fingers. “I’d like that a lot, (Y/n)-san.”

Something does explode then. You’re fairly certain it’s your pitiful little heart.

“Would dinner be alright?” Kita asks calmly, unbothered by your short-circuiting. You can only nod dumbly and his small smile widens, almost tender as he leans closer, bringing his lips to your ear.

_ Almost. _

“I think we have a lot to discuss,” Kita says warmly, his breath ghosting against the shell of your ear as he holds your hands together between the two of you. His other hand gently threads through the back of your hair, guiding your face toward his despite your bleeding nose and he really does look gentle— “Including quitting that second job.”

Gentle— _ huh? _

“It’s been a bit difficult, even for me,” Kita says kindly against your ear, leaning back and bringing your foreheads together. “To know someone else gets to hold you like that.”

You suddenly can’t help but think of how great Kita was in that other movie, the one where he played the handsome, darkly intelligent villain—

Kita smiles, pure honey, and you dazedly think you can almost taste it too when he softly presses his lips to yours with promise.

“I look forward to what will come tomorrow for us, (Y/n)-san.”

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU AGAIN SHIROHI FOR EVERYTHING <33 I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!!!!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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